Speedreed

THE

5TH

WAVE

By

Rick

Yancey

For

Sandy,

whose

dreams

inspire

and

whose

love

endures

IF

ALIENS

EVER

VISIT

US,

I

think

the

outcome

would

be

much

as

when

Christopher

Columbus

first

landed

in

America,

which

didn’t

turn

out

very

well

for

the

Native

Americans.

—Stephen

Hawking

THE

1ST

WAVE:

Lights

Out

THE

2ND

WAVE:

Surf’s

Up

THE

3RD

WAVE:

Pestilence

THE

4TH

WAVE:

Silencer

INTRUSION:

1995

THERE

WILL

BE

NO

AWAKENING.

The

sleeping

woman

will

feel

nothing

the

next

morning,

only

a

vague

sense

of

unease

and

the

unshakable

feeling

that

someone

is

watching

her.

Her

anxiety

will

fade

in

less

than

a

day

and

will

soon

be

forgotten.

The

memory

of

the

dream

will

linger

a

little

longer.

In

her

dream,

a

large

owl

perches

outside

the

window,

staring

at

her

through

the

glass

with

huge,

white-rimmed

eyes.

She

will

not

awaken.

Neither

will

her

husband

beside

her.

The

shadow

falling

over

them

will

not

disturb

their

sleep.

And

what

the

shadow

has

come

for—the

baby

within

the

sleeping

woman—will

feel

nothing.

The

intrusion

breaks

no

skin,

violates

not

a

single

cell

of

her

or

the

baby’s

body.

It

is

over

in

less

than

a

minute.

The

shadow

withdraws.

Now

it

is

only

the

man,

the

woman,

the

baby

inside

her,

and

the

intruder

inside

the

baby,

sleeping.

The

woman

and

man

will

awaken

in

the

morning,

the

baby

a

few

months

later

when

he

is

born.

The

intruder

inside

him

will

sleep

on

and

not

wake

for

several

years,

when

the

unease

of

the

child’s

mother

and

the

memory

of

that

dream

have

long

since

faded.

Five

years

later,

at

a

visit

to

the

zoo

with

her

child,

the

woman

will

see

an

owl

identical

to

the

one

in

the

dream.

Seeing

the

owl

is

unsettling

for

reasons

she

cannot

understand.

She

is

not

the

first

to

dream

of

owls

in

the

dark.

She

will

not

be

the

last.

1

ALIENS

ARE

STUPID.

I’m

not

talking

about

real

aliens.

The

Others

aren’t

stupid.

The

Others

are

so

farahead

of

us,

it’s

like

comparing

the

dumbest

human

to

the

smartest

dog.

No

contest.

No,

I’m

talking

about

the

aliens

inside

our

own

heads.

The

ones

we

made

up,

the

ones

we’ve

been

making

up

since

we

realized

those

glittering

lights

in

the

sky

were

suns

like

ours

and

probably

had

planets

like

ours

spinning

around

them.

You

know,

the

aliens

we

imagine,

the

kind

of

aliens

we’d

like

to

attack

us,

human

aliens.

You’ve

seen

them

a

million

times.

They

swoop

down

fromthe

sky

in

their

flying

saucers

to

level

New

York

and

Tokyo

and

London,

or

they

march

across

the

countryside

in

huge

machines

that

look

like

mechanical

spiders,

ray

guns

blasting

away,

and

always,

always,

humanity

sets

aside

its

differences

and

bands

together

to

defeat

the

alien

horde.

David

slays

Goliath,

and

everybody

(except

Goliath)

goes

home

happy.

What

crap.

It’s

like

a

cockroach

working

up

a

plan

to

defeat

the

shoe

on

its

way

down

to

crush

it.

There’s

no

way

to

know

for

sure,

but

I

bet

the

Others

knew

about

the

human

aliens

we’d

imagined.

And

I

bet

they

thought

it

was

funny

as

hell.

They

must

have

laughedtheir

asses

off.

If

they

have

a

sense

of

humor…or

asses.

They

must

have

laughed

the

way

we

laugh

when

a

dog

does

something

totally

cute

and

dorky.

Oh,

those

cute,

dorky

humans!

They

think

we

think

like

they

do!

Isn’t

that

adorable?

Forget

about

flying

saucers

and

little

green

men

and

giant

mechanical

spiders

spitting

out

death

rays.

Forget

about

epic

battles

with

tanks

and

fighter

jets

and

the

final

victory

of

us

scrappy,

unbroken,

intrepid

humans

over

the

bug-eyed

swarm.

That’s

about

as

far

from

the

truth

as

their

dying

planet

was

from

our

living

one.

The

truth

is,

once

they

found

us,

we

were

toast.

2

SOMETIMES

I

THINK

I

might

be

the

last

human

on

Earth.

Which

means

I’m

the

last

human

in

the

universe.

I

know

that’s

dumb.

They

can’t

have

killed

everyone…yet.

I

see

how

it

could

happen,

though,

eventually.

And

then

I

think

that’s

exactly

what

the

Others

want

me

to

see.

Remember

the

dinosaurs?

Well.

So

I’m

probably

not

the

last

human

on

Earth,

but

I’m

one

of

the

last.

Totally

alone—andlikely

to

stay

that

way—until

the

4th

Wave

rolls

over

me

and

carries

me

down.

That’s

one

of

my

night

thoughts.

You

know,

the

three-in-the-morning,

oh-my-God-I’m-screwed

thoughts.

When

I

curl

into

a

little

ball,

so

scared

I

can’t

close

my

eyes,

drowningin

fear

so

intense

I

have

to

remind

myself

to

breathe,

will

my

heart

to

keep

beating.

When

my

brain

checks

out

and

begins

to

skip

like

a

scratched

CD.

Alone,

alone,

alone,

Cassie,

you’re

alone.

That’s

my

name.

Cassie.

Not

Cassie

for

Cassandra.

Or

Cassie

for

Cassidy.

Cassie

for

Cassiopeia,

the

constellation,the

queen

tied

to

her

chair

in

the

northern

sky,

who

was

beautiful

but

vain,

placed

in

the

heavens

by

the

sea

god

Poseidon

as

a

punishment

for

her

boasting.

In

Greek,her

name

means

“she

whose

words

excel.”

My

parents

didn’t

know

the

first

thing

about

that

myth.

They

just

thought

the

name

was

pretty.

Even

when

there

were

people

around

to

call

me

anything,

no

one

ever

called

me

Cassiopeia.Just

my

father,

and

only

when

he

was

teasing

me,

and

always

in

a

very

bad

Italian

accent:

Cass-ee-ohPEE-a.

It

drove

me

crazy.

I

didn’t

think

he

was

funny

or

cute,

and

it

made

me

hate

my

own

name.

“I’m

Cassie!”

I’d

holler

at

him.

“Just

Cassie!”

Now

I’d

give

anything

to

hearhim

say

it

just

one

more

time.

When

I

was

turning

twelve—four

years

before

the

Arrival—my

father

gave

me

a

telescope

for

my

birthday.

On

a

crisp,

clear

fall

evening,

he

set

it

up

in

the

backyard

and

showed

me

the

constellation.

“See

how

it

looks

like

a

W?”

he

asked.

“Why

did

they

name

it

Cassiopeia

if

it’s

shaped

like

a

W?”

I

replied.

“W

for

what?”

“Well…I

don’t

know

that

it’s

for

anything,”

he

answered

with

a

smile.

Mom

always

told

him

it

was

his

best

feature,

so

he

trotted

it

out

a

lot,

especially

after

he

started

going

bald.

You

know,

to

drag

the

other

person’s

eyes

downward.

“So,

it’s

for

anything

you

like!

How

about

wonderful?

Or

winsome?

Or

wise?”

He

dropped

his

hand

on

my

shoulder

as

I

squinted

through

the

lens

at

the

five

stars

burning

over

fifty

light-years

from

the

spot

on

which

we

stood.

I

could

feel

my

father’s

breath

against

my

cheek,

warm

and

moist

in

the

cool,

dry

autumn

air.

His

breath

so

close,

the

stars

of

Cassiopeia

so

very

far

away.

The

stars

seem

a

lot

closer

now.

Closer

than

the

three

hundred

trillion

miles

that

separate

us.

Close

enough

to

touch,

for

me

to

touch

them,

for

them

to

touch

me.

They’re

as

close

to

me

as

his

breath

had

been.

That

sounds

crazy.

Am

I

crazy?

Have

I

lost

my

mind?

You

can

only

call

someone

crazy

if

there’s

someone

else

who’s

normal.

Like

good

and

evil.

If

everything

was

good,

then

nothing

would

be

good.

Whoa.

That

sounds,

well…crazy.

Crazy:

the

new

normal.

I

guess

I

could

call

myself

crazy,

since

there

is

one

other

person

I

can

compare

myselfto:

me.

Not

the

me

I

am

now,

shivering

in

a

tent

deep

in

the

woods,

too

afraid

to

even

poke

her

head

from

the

sleeping

bag.

Not

this

Cassie.

No,

I’m

talking

about

theCassie

I

was

before

the

Arrival,

before

the

Others

parked

their

alien

butts

in

high

orbit.

The

twelve-year-old

me,

whose

biggest

problems

were

the

spray

of

tiny

freckles

on

her

nose

and

the

curly

hair

she

couldn’t

do

anything

with

and

the

cute

boy

who

saw

her

every

day

and

had

no

clue

she

existed.

The

Cassie

who

was

coming

to

terms

with

the

painful

fact

that

she

was

just

okay.

Okay

in

looks.

Okay

in

school.

Okayat

sports

like

karate

and

soccer.

Basically

the

only

unique

things

about

her

were

the

weird

name—Cassie

for

Cassiopeia,

which

nobody

knew

about,

anyway—and

her

ability

to

touch

her

nose

with

the

tip

of

her

tongue,

a

skill

that

quickly

lost

its

impressiveness

by

the

time

she

hit

middle

school.

I’m

probably

crazy

by

that

Cassie’s

standards.

And

she

sure

is

crazy

by

mine.

I

scream

at

her

sometimes,

thattwelve-year-old

Cassie,

moping

over

her

hair

or

her

weird

name

or

at

being

just

okay.

“What

are

you

doing?”

I

yell.

“Don’t

you

know

what’s

coming?”

But

that

isn’t

fair.

The

fact

is

she

didn’t

know,

had

no

way

of

knowing,

and

that

was

her

blessing

and

why

I

miss

her

so

much,

more

than

anyone,

if

I’m

being

honest.

When

I

cry—when

I

let

myself

cry

—that’s

who

I

cry

for.

I

don’t

cry

for

myself.

I

cry

for

the

Cassie

that’s

gone.

And

I

wonder

what

that

Cassie

would

think

of

me.

The

Cassie

who

kills.

3

HE

COULDN’T

HAVE

BEEN

much

older

than

me.

Eighteen.

Maybe

nineteen.

But

hell,

he

could

have

been

seven

hundred

and

nineteen

for

all

I

know.

Five

months

into

it

and

I’m

still

not

sure

if

the

4th

Wave

is

human

or

some

kind

of

hybrid

or

even

the

Others

themselves,

though

I

don’t

like

to

think

that

the

Others

look

just

like

us

and

talk

just

like

us

and

bleed

just

like

us.

I

like

to

think

of

the

Others

as

being…well,

other.

I

was

on

my

weekly

foray

for

water.

There’s

a

stream

not

far

from

my

campsite,

but

I’m

worried

it

might

be

contaminated,

either

from

chemicals

or

sewage

or

maybe

a

body

or

two

upstream.

Or

poisoned.

Depriving

us

of

clean

water

would

be

an

excellent

way

to

wipe

us

out

quickly.

So

once

a

week

I

shoulder

my

trusty

M16

and

hike

out

ofthe

forest

to

the

interstate.

Two

miles

south,

just

off

Exit

175,

there’re

a

couple

of

gas

stations

with

convenience

stores

attached.

I

load

up

as

much

bottled

water

as

I

can

carry,

which

isn’t

a

lot

because

water

is

heavy,

and

get

back

to

the

highway

and

the

relative

safety

of

the

trees

as

quickly

as

I

can,

before

night

falls

completely.

Dusk

is

the

best

time

to

travel.

I’ve

never

seen

a

drone

at

dusk.

Three

or

four

duringthe

day

and

a

lot

more

at

night,

but

never

at

dusk.

From

the

moment

I

slipped

through

the

gas

station’s

shattered

front

door,

I

knew

something

was

different.

I

didn’tsee

anything

different—the

store

looked

exactly

like

it

had

a

week

earlier,

the

same

graffiti-scrawled

walls,

overturned

shelves,

floor

strewn

with

empty

boxes

and

caked-in

rat

feces,

the

busted-open

cash

registers

and

looted

beer

coolers.

It

was

the

same

disgusting,

stinking

mess

I’d

waded

through

every

week

for

the

past

month

to

get

to

the

storage

area

behind

the

refrigerated

display

cases.

Why

people

grabbed

the

beer

and

soda,

the

cash

from

the

registers

and

safe,

the

rolls

of

lottery

tickets,

but

left

the

two

pallets

of

drinking

water

was

beyond

me.

What

were

they

thinking?

It’s

an

alien

apocalypse!

Quick,

grab

the

beer!

The

same

disaster

of

spoilage,

the

same

stench

of

rats

and

rotted

food,

the

same

fitful

swirl

of

dust

in

the

murky

light

pushing

through

the

smudged

windows,

every

out-of-place

thing

in

its

place,

undisturbed.

Still.

Something

was

different.

I

was

standing

in

the

little

pool

of

broken

glass

just

inside

the

doorway.

I

didn’t

see

it.

I

didn’t

hear

it.

I

didn’t

smell

or

feel

it.

But

I

knew

it.

Something

was

different.

It’s

been

a

long

time

since

humans

were

prey

animals.

A

hundred

thousand

years

or

so.

But

buried

deep

in

our

genes

the

memory

remains:

the

awareness

of

the

gazelle,

the

instinct

of

the

antelope.

The

wind

whispers

through

the

grass.

A

shadow

flits

between

the

trees.

And

up

speaks

the

little

voice

that

goes,

Shhhh,

it’s

close

now.

Close.

I

don’t

remember

swinging

the

M16

from

my

shoulder.

One

minute

it

was

hanging

behindmy

back,

the

next

it

was

in

my

hands,

muzzle

down,

safety

off.

Close.

I’d

never

fired

it

at

anything

bigger

than

a

rabbit,

and

that

was

a

kind

of

experiment,

to

see

if

I

could

actually

use

the

thing

without

blowing

off

one

of

my

own

body

parts.

Once

I

shot

over

the

heads

of

a

pack

of

feral

dogs

that

had

gotten

a

little

too

interested

in

my

campsite.

Another

time

nearly

straight

up,

sighting

the

tiny,

glowering

speck

of

greenish

light

that

was

their

mothership

sliding

silently

across

the

backdrop

of

the

Milky

Way.

Okay,

I

admit

that

was

stupid.

I

might

as

well

have

erected

a

billboard

with

a

big

arrow

pointing

at

my

head

and

the

words

YOO-HOO,

HERE

I

AM!

After

the

rabbit

experiment—it

blew

that

poor

damn

bunny

apart,

turning

Peter

into

this

unrecognizable

mass

of

shredded

guts

and

bone—I

gave

up

the

idea

of

using

the

rifle

to

hunt.

I

didn’t

even

do

target

practice.

In

the

silence

that

had

slammed

down

after

the

4th

Wave

struck,

the

report

of

the

rounds

sounded

louder

than

an

atomic

blast.

Still,

I

considered

the

M16

my

bestest

of

besties.

Always

by

my

side,

even

at

night,burrowed

into

my

sleeping

bag

with

me,

faithful

and

true.

In

the

4th

Wave,

you

can’t

trust

that

people

are

still

people.

But

you

can

trust

that

your

gun

is

still

your

gun.

Shhh,

Cassie.

It’s

close.

Close.

I

should

have

bailed.

That

little

voice

had

my

back.

That

little

voice

is

older

thanI

am.

It’s

older

than

the

oldest

person

who

ever

lived.

I

should

have

listened

to

that

voice.

Instead,

I

listened

to

the

silence

of

the

abandoned

store,

listened

hard.

Somethingwas

close.

I

took

a

tiny

step

away

from

the

door,

and

the

broken

glass

crunched

ever

so

softly

under

my

foot.

And

then

the

Something

made

a

noise,

somewhere

between

a

cough

and

a

moan.

It

camefrom

the

back

room,

behind

the

coolers,

where

my

water

was.

That’s

the

moment

when

I

didn’t

need

a

little

old

voice

to

tell

me

what

to

do.

Itwas

obvious,

a

nobrainer.

Run.

But

I

didn’t

run.

The

first

rule

of

surviving

the

4th

Wave

is

don’t

trust

anyone.

It

doesn’t

matter

what

they

look

like.

The

Others

are

very

smart

about

that—okay,

they’re

smart

about

everything.

It

doesn’t

matter

if

they

look

the

right

way

and

say

the

right

things

and

act

exactly

like

you

expect

them

to

act.

Didn’t

my

father’s

death

prove

that?

Even

if

the

stranger

is

a

little

old

lady

sweeter

than

your

great-aunt

Tilly,

hugging

a

helpless

kitten,

you

can’t

know

for

certain—you

can

never

know—that

she

isn’t

one

of

them,

and

that

there

isn’t

a

loaded

.45

behind

that

kitten.

It

isn’t

unthinkable.

And

the

more

you

think

about

it,

the

more

thinkable

it

becomes.

Little

old

lady

has

to

go.

That’s

the

hard

part,

the

part

that,

if

I

thought

about

it

too

much,

would

make

me

crawl

into

my

sleeping

bag,

zip

myself

up,

and

die

of

slow

starvation.

If

you

can’t

trust

anyone,

then

you

can

trust

no

one.

Better

to

take

the

chance

that

Aunty

Tilly

is

one

of

them

than

play

the

odds

that

you’ve

stumbled

across

a

fellow

survivor.

That’s

friggin’

diabolical.

It

tears

us

apart.

It

makes

us

that

much

easier

to

hunt

down

and

eradicate.

The

4thWave

forces

us

into

solitude,

where

there’s

no

strength

in

numbers,

where

we

slowly

go

crazy

from

the

isolation

and

fear

and

terrible

anticipation

of

the

inevitable.

So

I

didn’t

run.

I

couldn’t.

Whether

it

was

one

of

them

or

an

Aunt

Tilly,

I

had

todefend

my

turf.

The

only

way

to

stay

alive

is

to

stay

alone.

That’s

rule

number

two.

I

followed

the

sobbing

coughs

or

coughing

sobs

or

whatever

you

want

to

call

them

till

I

reached

the

door

that

opened

to

the

back

room.

Hardly

breathing,

on

the

balls

of

my

feet.

The

door

was

ajar,

the

space

just

wide

enough

for

me

to

slip

through

sideways.

A

metal

rack

on

the

wall

directly

in

front

of

me

and,

to

the

right,

the

long

narrow

hallway

that

ran

the

length

of

the

coolers.

There

were

no

windows

back

here.

The

only

lightwas

the

sickly

orange

of

the

dying

day

behind

me,

still

bright

enough

to

hurl

my

shadow

onto

the

sticky

floor.

I

crouched

down;

my

shadow

crouched

with

me.

I

couldn’t

see

around

the

edge

of

the

cooler

into

the

hall.

But

I

could

hear

whoever—orwhatever

—it

was

at

the

far

end,

coughing,

moaning,

and

that

gurgling

sob.

Either

hurt

badly

or

acting

hurt

badly,

I

thought.

Either

needs

help

or

it’s

a

trap.

This

is

what

life

on

Earth

has

become

since

the

Arrival.

It’s

an

either/or

world.

Either

it’s

one

of

them

and

it

knows

you’re

here

or

it’s

not

one

of

them

and

he

needs

your

help.

Either

way,

I

had

to

get

up

and

turn

that

corner.

So

I

got

up.

And

I

turned

the

corner.

4

HE

LAY

SPRAWLED

against

the

back

wall

twenty

feet

away,

long

legs

spread

out

in

frontof

him,

clutching

his

stomach

with

one

hand.

He

was

wearing

fatigues

and

black

boots

and

he

was

covered

in

grime

and

shimmering

with

blood.

There

was

blood

everywhere.

On

the

wall

behind

him.

Pooling

on

the

cold

concrete

beneath

him.

Coating

his

uniform.

Matted

in

his

hair.

The

blood

glittered

darkly,

black

as

tar

in

the

semidarkness.

In

his

other

hand

was

a

gun,

and

that

gun

was

pointed

at

my

head.

I

mirrored

him.

His

handgun

to

my

rifle.

Fingers

flexing

on

the

triggers:

his,

mine.

It

didn’t

prove

anything,

his

pointing

a

gun

at

me.

Maybe

he

really

was

a

wounded

soldier

and

thought

I

was

one

of

them.

Or

maybe

not.

“Drop

your

weapon,”

he

sputtered

at

me.

Like

hell.

“Drop

your

weapon!”

he

shouted,

or

tried

to

shout.

The

words

came

out

all

cracked

and

crumbly,

beaten

up

by

the

blood

rising

from

his

gut.

Blood

dribbled

over

his

bottom

lip

and

hung

quivering

from

his

stubbly

chin.

His

teeth

shone

with

blood.

I

shook

my

head.

My

back

was

to

the

light,

and

I

prayed

he

couldn’t

see

how

badlyI

was

shaking

or

the

fear

in

my

eyes.

This

wasn’t

some

damn

rabbit

that

was

stupid

enough

to

hop

into

my

camp

one

sunny

morning.

This

was

a

person.

Or,

if

it

wasn’t,

it

looked

just

like

one.

The

thing

about

killing

is

you

don’t

know

if

you

can

actually

do

it

until

you

actually

do

it.

He

said

it

a

third

time,

not

as

loud

as

the

second.

It

came

out

like

a

plea.

“Drop

your

weapon.”

The

hand

holding

his

gun

twitched.

The

muzzle

dipped

toward

the

floor.

Not

much,

but

my

eyes

had

adjusted

to

the

light

by

this

point,

and

I

saw

a

speck

of

blood

run

down

the

barrel.

And

then

he

dropped

the

gun.

It

fell

between

his

legs

with

a

sharp

cling.

He

brought

up

his

empty

hand

and

held

it,

palm

outward,

over

his

shoulder.

“Okay,”

he

said

with

a

bloody

half

smile.

“Your

turn.”

I

shook

my

head.

“Other

hand,”

I

said.

I

hoped

my

voice

sounded

stronger

than

I

felt.My

knees

had

begun

to

shake

and

my

arms

ached

and

my

head

was

spinning.

I

was

also

fighting

the

urge

to

hurl.

You

don’t

know

if

you

can

do

it

until

you

do

it.

“I

can’t,”

he

said.

“Other

hand.”

“If

I

move

this

hand,

I’m

afraid

my

stomach

will

fall

out.”

I

adjusted

the

butt

of

the

rifle

against

my

shoulder.

I

was

sweating,

shaking,

trying

to

think.

Either/or,

Cassie.

What

are

you

going

to

do,

either/or?

“I’m

dying,”

he

said

matter-of-factly.

From

this

distance,

his

eyes

were

just

pinpricks

of

reflected

light.

“So

you

can

either

finish

me

off

or

help

me.

I

know

you’re

human—”

“How

do

you

know?”

I

asked

quickly,

before

he

could

die

on

me.

If

he

was

a

real

soldier,

he

might

know

how

to

tell

the

difference.

It

would

be

an

extremely

useful

bit

of

information.

“Because

if

you

weren’t,

you

would

have

shot

me

already.”

He

smiled

again,

his

cheeks

dimpled,

and

that’s

when

it

hit

me

how

young

he

was.

Only

a

couple

years

older

than

me.

“See?”

he

said

softly.

“That’s

how

you

know,

too.”

“How

I

know

what?”

My

eyes

were

tearing

up.

His

crumpled-up

body

wiggled

in

my

visionlike

an

image

in

a

fun-house

mirror.

But

I

didn’t

dare

release

my

grip

on

the

rifle

to

rub

my

eyes.

“That

I’m

human.

If

I

wasn’t,

I

would

have

shot

you.”

That

made

sense.

Or

did

it

make

sense

because

I

wanted

it

to

make

sense?

Maybe

hedropped

the

gun

to

get

me

to

drop

mine,

and

once

I

did,

the

second

gun

he

was

hiding

under

his

fatigues

would

come

out

and

the

bullet

would

say

hello

to

my

brain.

This

is

what

the

Others

have

done

to

us.

You

can’t

band

together

to

fight

without

trust.

And

without

trust,

there

was

no

hope.

How

do

you

rid

the

Earth

of

humans?

Rid

the

humans

of

their

humanity.

“I

have

to

see

your

other

hand,”

I

said.

“I

told

you—”

“I

have

to

see

your

other

hand!”

My

voice

cracked

then.

Couldn’t

help

it.

He

lost

it.

“Then

you’re

just

going

to

have

to

shoot

me,

bitch!

Just

shoot

me

and

get

it

over

with!”

His

head

fell

back

against

the

wall,

his

mouth

came

open,

and

a

terrible

howl

of

anguish

tumbled

out

and

bounced

from

wall

to

wall

and

floor

to

ceiling

and

pounded

against

my

ears.

I

didn’t

know

if

he

was

screaming

from

the

pain

or

the

realization

that

I

wasn’t

going

to

save

him.

He

had

given

in

to

hope,

and

that

will

kill

you.

It

kills

you

before

you

die.

Long

before

you

die.

“If

I

show

you,”

he

gasped,

rocking

back

and

forth

against

the

bloody

concrete,

“if

I

show

you,

will

you

help

me?”

I

didn’t

answer.

I

didn’t

answer

because

I

didn’t

have

an

answer.

I

was

playing

this

one

nanosecond

at

a

time.

So

he

decided

for

me.

He

wasn’t

going

to

let

them

win,

that’s

what

I

think

now.

He

wasn’t

going

to

stop

hoping.

If

it

killed

him,

at

least

he

would

die

with

a

sliver

of

his

humanity

intact.

Grimacing,

he

slowly

pulled

out

his

left

hand.

Not

much

day

left

now,

hardly

any

light

at

all,

and

what

light

there

was

seemed

to

be

flowing

away

from

its

source,

from

him,

past

me

and

out

the

halfopen

door.

His

hand

was

caked

in

half-dried

blood.

It

looked

like

he

was

wearing

a

crimson

glove.

The

stunted

light

kissed

his

bloody

hand

and

flicked

along

the

length

of

something

long

and

thin

and

metallic,

and

my

finger

yanked

back

on

the

trigger,

and

the

rifle

kicked

against

my

shoulder

hard,

and

the

barrel

bucked

in

my

hand

as

I

emptied

the

clip,

and

from

a

great

distance

I

heard

someone

screaming,

but

it

wasn’t

him

screaming,

it

was

me

screaming,

me

and

everybody

else

who

was

left,

if

there

was

anybody

left,

all

of

us

helpless,

hopeless,

stupid

humans

screaming,

because

we

got

it

wrong,

we

got

it

all

wrong,

there

was

no

alien

swarm

descending

from

the

sky

in

their

flying

saucers

or

big

metal

walkers

like

something

out

of

Star

Wars

or

cute

little

wrinkly

E.T.s

who

just

wanted

to

pluck

a

couple

of

leaves,

eat

some

Reese’s

Pieces,

and

go

home.

That’s

not

how

it

ends.

That’s

not

how

it

ends

at

all.

It

ends

with

us

killing

each

other

behind

rows

of

empty

beer

coolers

in

the

dying

light

of

a

latesummer

day.

I

went

up

to

him

before

the

last

of

the

light

was

gone.

Not

to

see

if

he

was

dead.

I

knew

he

was

dead.

I

wanted

to

see

what

he

was

still

holding

in

his

bloody

hand.

It

was

a

crucifix.

5

THAT

WAS

THE

LAST

PERSON

I’ve

seen.

The

leaves

are

falling

heavy

now,

and

the

nights

have

turned

cold.

I

can’t

stay

in

these

woods.

No

leaves

for

cover

from

the

drones,

can’t

risk

a

campfire—I

gotta

get

out

of

here.

I

know

where

I

have

to

go.

I’ve

known

for

a

long

time.

I

made

a

promise.

The

kindof

promise

you

don’t

break

because,

if

you

break

it,

you’ve

broken

part

of

yourself,

maybe

the

most

important

part.

But

you

tell

yourself

things.

Things

like,

I

need

to

come

up

with

something

first.

I

can’t

just

walk

into

the

lion’s

den

without

a

plan.

Or,

It’s

hopeless,

there’s

no

point

anymore.

You’ve

waited

too

long.

Whatever

the

reason

I

didn’t

leave

before,

I

should

have

left

the

night

I

killed

him.I

don’t

know

how

he

was

wounded;

I

didn’t

examine

his

body

or

anything,

and

I

should

have,

no

matter

how

freaked

out

I

was.

I

guess

he

could

have

gotten

hurt

in

an

accident,

but

the

odds

were

better

that

someone—or

something—had

shot

him.

And

if

someone

or

something

had

shot

him,

that

someone

or

something

was

still

out

there…unless

the

Crucifix

Soldier

had

offed

her/him/them/it.

Or

he

was

one

of

them

and

the

crucifix

was

a

trick…

Another

way

the

Others

mess

with

your

head:

the

uncertain

circumstances

of

your

certain

destruction.

Maybe

that

will

be

the

5th

Wave,

attacking

us

from

the

inside,

turning

our

own

minds

into

weapons.

Maybe

the

last

human

being

on

Earth

won’t

die

of

starvation

or

exposure

or

as

a

meal

for

wild

animals.

Maybe

the

last

one

to

die

will

be

killed

by

the

last

one

alive.

Okay,

that’s

not

someplace

you

want

to

go,

Cassie.

Honestly,

even

though

it’s

suicide

to

stay

here

and

I

have

a

promise

to

keep,

I

don’t

want

to

leave.

These

woods

have

been

home

for

a

long

time.

I

know

every

path,

everytree,

every

vine

and

bush.

I

lived

in

the

same

house

for

sixteen

years

and

I

can’t

tell

you

exactly

what

my

backyard

looked

like,

but

I

can

describe

in

detail

every

leaf

and

twig

in

this

stretch

of

forest.

I

have

no

clue

what’s

out

there

beyond

these

woods

and

the

two-mile

stretch

of

interstate

I

hike

every

week

to

forage

for

supplies.

I’m

guessing

a

lot

more

of

the

same:

abandoned

towns

reeking

of

sewage

and

rotting

corpses,

burnedout

shells

of

houses,

feral

dogs

and

cats,

pileups

that

stretch

for

miles

on

the

highway.

And

bodies.

Lots

and

lots

of

bodies.

I

pack

up.

This

tent

has

been

my

home

for

a

long

time,

but

it’s

too

bulky

and

I

need

to

travel

light.

Just

the

essentials,

with

the

Luger,

the

M16,

the

ammo,

and

my

trustybowie

knife

topping

the

list.

Sleeping

bag,

first

aid

kit,

five

bottles

of

water,

three

boxes

of

Slim

Jims,

and

some

tins

of

sardines.

I

hated

sardines

before

the

Arrival.

Now

I’ve

developed

a

real

taste

for

them.

First

thing

I

look

for

when

I

hit

a

grocery

store?

Sardines.

Books?

They’re

heavy

and

take

up

room

in

my

already

bulging

backpack.

But

I

have

athing

about

books.

So

did

my

father.

Our

house

was

stacked

floor

to

ceiling

with

every

book

he

could

find

after

the

3rd

Wave

took

out

more

than

3.5

billion

people.

While

the

rest

of

us

scrounged

for

potable

water

and

food

and

stocked

up

on

the

weaponry

for

the

last

stand

we

were

sure

was

coming,

Daddy

was

out

with

my

little

brother’s

Radio

Flyer

carting

home

the

books.

The

mind-blowing

numbers

didn’t

faze

him.

The

fact

that

we’d

gone

from

seven

billionstrong

to

a

couple

hundred

thousand

in

four

months

didn’t

shake

his

confidence

that

our

race

would

survive.

“We

have

to

think

about

the

future,”

he

insisted.

“When

this

is

over,

we’ll

have

to

rebuild

nearly

every

aspect

of

civilization.”

Solar

flashlight.

Toothbrush

and

paste.

I’m

determined,

when

the

time

comes,

to

at

least

go

out

with

clean

teeth.

Gloves.

Two

pairs

of

socks,

underwear,

travel-size

box

of

Tide,

deodorant,

and

shampoo.

(Gonna

go

out

clean.

See

above.)

Tampons.

I’m

constantly

worrying

about

my

stash

and

if

I’ll

be

able

to

find

more.

My

plastic

baggie

stuffed

with

pictures.

Dad.

Mom.

My

little

brother,

Sammy.

My

grandparents.

Lizbeth,

my

best

friend.

One

of

Ben

You-Were-Some-Kind-of-Serious-Gorgeous

Parish,clipped

from

my

yearbook,

because

Ben

was

my

future

boyfriend

and/or/maybe

future

husband—not

that

he

knew

it.

He

barely

knew

I

existed.

I

knew

some

of

the

same

peoplehe

knew,

but

I

was

a

girl

in

the

background,

several

degrees

of

separation

removed.

The

only

thing

wrong

with

Ben

was

his

height:

He

was

six

inches

taller

than

me.

Well,

make

that

two

things

now:

his

height

and

the

fact

that

he’s

dead.

My

cell

phone.

It

was

fried

in

the

1st

Wave,

and

there’s

no

way

to

charge

it.

Cell

towers

don’t

work,

and

there’s

no

one

to

call

if

they

did.

But,

you

know,

it’s

my

cell

phone.

Nail

clippers.

Matches.

I

don’t

light

fires,

but

at

some

point

I

may

need

to

burn

something

or

blow

it

up.

Two

spiral-bound

notebooks,

college

ruled,

one

with

a

purple

cover,

the

other

red.

My

favorite

colors,

plus

they’re

my

journals.

It’s

part

of

the

hope

thing.

But

if

I

am

the

last

and

there’s

no

one

left

to

read

them,

maybe

an

alien

will

and

they’ll

know

exactly

what

I

think

of

them.

In

case

you’re

an

alien

and

you’re

reading

this:

BITE

ME.

My

Starburst,

already

culled

of

the

orange.

Three

packs

of

Wrigley’s

Spearmint.

Mylast

two

Tootsie

Pops.

Mom’s

wedding

ring.

Sammy’s

ratty

old

teddy

bear.

Not

that

it’s

mine

now.

Not

that

I

ever

cuddle

with

it

or

anything.

That’s

everything

I

can

stuff

into

the

backpack.

Weird.

Seems

like

too

much

and

not

enough.

Still

room

for

a

couple

of

paperbacks,

barely.

Huckleberry

Finn

or

The

Grapes

of

Wrath?

The

poems

of

Sylvia

Plath

or

Sammy’s

Shel

Silverstein?

Probably

not

a

good

ideato

take

the

Plath.

Depressing.

Silverstein

is

for

kids,

but

it

still

makes

me

smile.

I

decide

to

take

Huckleberry

(seems

appropriate)

and

Where

the

Sidewalk

Ends.

See

you

there

soon,

Shel.

Climb

aboard,

Jim.

I

heave

the

backpack

over

one

shoulder,

sling

the

rifle

over

the

other,

and

head

down

the

trail

toward

the

highway.

I

don’t

look

back.

I

pause

inside

the

last

line

of

trees.

A

twenty-foot

embankment

runs

down

to

the

southbound

lanes,

littered

with

disabled

cars,

piles

of

clothing,

shredded

plastic

garbage

bags,

the

burned-out

hulks

of

tractor

trailers

carrying

everything

from

gasoline

to

milk.

There

are

wrecks

everywhere,

some

no

worse

than

fender

benders,

some

pileups

that

snake

along

the

interstate

for

miles,

and

the

morning

sunlight

sparkles

on

all

the

broken

glass.

There

are

no

bodies.

These

cars

have

been

here

since

the

1st

Wave,

long

abandoned

by

their

owners.

Not

many

people

died

in

the

1st

Wave,

the

massive

electromagnetic

pulse

that

ripped

through

the

atmosphere

at

precisely

eleven

A.M.

on

the

tenth

day.

Only

around

half

a

million,

Dad

guessed.

Okay,

half

a

million

sounds

like

a

lot

of

people,

but

really

it’s

just

a

drop

in

the

population

bucket.

World

War

II

killed

over

a

hundred

times

that

number.

And

we

did

have

some

time

to

prepare

for

it,

though

we

weren’t

exactly

sure

what

we

were

preparing

for.

Ten

days

from

the

first

satellite

pictures

of

the

mothership

passing

Mars

to

the

launch

of

the

1st

Wave.

Ten

days

of

mayhem.

Martial

law,

sit-ins

at

the

UN,

parades,

rooftop

parties,

endless

Internet

chatter,

and

24/7

coverage

of

the

Arrival

over

every

medium.

The

president

addressed

the

nation—and

then

disappeared

into

his

bunker.

The

Security

Council

went

into

a

lockeddown,

closed-to-the-press

emergency

session.

A

lot

of

people

just

split,

like

our

neighbors,

the

Majewskis.

Packed

up

their

camper

on

the

afternoon

of

the

sixth

day

with

everything

they

could

fit

and

hit

the

road,

joining

a

mass

exodus

to

somewhere

else,

because

anywhere

else

seemed

safer

for

some

reason.

Thousands

of

people

took

off

for

the

mountains…or

the

desert…or

the

swamps.

You

know,

somewhere

else.

The

Majewskis’

somewhere

else

was

Disney

World.

They

weren’t

the

only

ones.

Disneyset

attendance

records

during

those

ten

days

before

the

EMP

strike.

Daddy

asked

Mr.

Majewski,

“So

why

Disney

World?”

And

Mr.

Majewski

said,

“Well,

the

kids

have

never

been.”

His

kids

were

both

in

college.

Catherine,

who

had

come

home

from

her

freshman

year

at

Baylor

the

day

before,

asked,

“Where

are

you

guys

going?”

“Nowhere,”

I

said.

And

I

didn’t

want

to

go

anywhere.

I

was

still

living

in

denial,pretending

all

this

crazy

alien

stuff

would

work

out,

I

didn’t

know

how,

maybe

with

the

signing

of

some

intergalactic

peace

treaty.

Or

maybe

they’d

dropped

by

to

take

a

couple

of

soil

samples

and

go

home.

Or

maybe

they

were

here

on

vacation,

like

the

Majewskis

going

to

Disney

World.

“You

need

to

get

out,”

she

said.

“They’ll

hit

the

cities

first.”

“You’re

probably

right,”

I

said.

“They’d

never

dream

of

taking

out

the

Magic

Kingdom.”

“How

would

you

rather

die?”

she

snapped.

“Hiding

under

your

bed

or

riding

Thunder

Mountain?”

Good

question.

Daddy

said

the

world

was

dividing

into

two

camps:

runners

and

nesters.

Runners

headed

for

the

hills—or

Thunder

Mountain.

Nesters

boarded

up

the

windows,

stocked

up

on

thecanned

goods

and

ammunition,

and

kept

the

TV

tuned

to

CNN

24/7.

There

were

no

messages

from

our

galactic

party

crashers

during

those

first

ten

days.

No

light

shows.

No

landing

on

the

South

Lawn

or

bug-eyed,

butt-headed

dudes

in

silverjumpsuits

demanding

to

be

taken

to

our

leader.

No

bright,

spinning

tops

blaring

the

universal

language

of

music.

And

no

answer

when

we

sent

our

message.

Something

like,

“Hello,

welcome

to

Earth.

Hope

you

enjoy

your

stay.

Please

don’t

kill

us.”

Nobody

knew

what

to

do.

We

figured

the

government

sort

of

did.

The

government

had

a

plan

for

everything,

so

we

assumed

they

had

a

plan

for

E.T.

showing

up

uninvited

and

unannounced,

like

the

weird

cousin

nobody

in

the

family

likes

to

talk

about.

Some

people

nested.

Some

people

ran.

Some

got

married.

Some

got

divorced.

Some

madebabies.

Some

killed

themselves.

We

walked

around

like

zombies,

blank-faced

and

robotic,

unable

to

absorb

the

magnitude

of

what

was

happening.

It’s

hard

to

believe

now,

but

my

family,

like

the

vast

majority

of

people,

went

about

our

daily

lives

as

if

the

most

monumentally

mind-blowing

thing

in

human

history

wasn’t

happening

right

over

our

heads.

Mom

and

Dad

went

to

work,

Sammy

went

to

day

care,and

I

went

to

school

and

soccer

practice.

It

was

so

normal,

it

was

damn

weird.

Bythe

end

of

Day

One,

everybody

over

the

age

of

two

had

seen

the

mothership

up

close

a

thousand

times,

this

big

grayish-green

glowing

hulk

about

the

size

of

Manhattan

circling

250

miles

above

the

Earth.

NASA

announced

its

plan

to

pull

a

space

shuttleout

of

mothballs

to

attempt

contact.

Well,

that’s

good,

we

thought.

This

silence

is

deafening.

Why

did

they

come

billions

of

miles

just

to

stare

at

us?

It’s

rude.

On

Day

Three,

I

went

out

with

a

guy

named

Mitchell

Phelps.

Well,

technically

we

wentoutside.

The

date

was

in

my

backyard

because

of

the

curfew.

He

hit

the

drive-through

at

Starbucks

on

his

way

over,

and

we

sat

on

the

back

patio

sipping

our

drinks

and

pretending

we

didn’t

see

Dad’s

shadow

passing

back

and

forth

as

he

paced

the

living

room.

Mitchell

had

moved

into

town

a

few

days

before

the

Arrival.

He

sat

behind

me

in

World

Lit,

and

I

made

the

mistake

of

loaning

him

my

highlighter.

So

the

next

thing

I

know

he’s

asking

me

out,

because

if

a

girl

loans

you

a

highlighter

she

must

think

you’re

hot.

I

don’t

know

why

I

went

out

with

him.

He

wasn’t

that

cute

and

he

wasn’t

thatinteresting

beyond

the

whole

New

Kid

aura,

and

he

definitely

wasn’t

Ben

Parish.

Nobodywas—except

Ben

Parish—

and

that

was

the

whole

problem.

By

the

third

day,

you

either

talked

about

the

Others

all

the

time

or

you

tried

not

to

talk

about

them

at

all.

I

fell

into

the

second

category.

Mitchell

was

in

the

first.

“What

if

they’re

us?”

he

asked.

It

didn’t

take

long

after

the

Arrival

for

all

the

conspiracy

nuts

to

start

buzzing

about

classified

government

projects

or

the

secret

plan

to

manufacture

an

alien

crisis

in

order

to

take

away

our

liberties.

I

thought

that’s

where

he

was

going

and

groaned.

“What?”

he

said.

“I

don’t

mean

us

us.

I

mean,

what

if

they’re

us

from

the

future?”

“And

it’s

like

The

Terminator,

right?”

I

said,

rolling

my

eyes.

“They’ve

come

to

stop

the

uprising

of

the

machines.

Or

maybe

they

are

the

machines.

Maybe

it’s

Skynet.”

“I

don’t

think

so,”

he

said,

acting

like

I

was

serious.

“It’s

the

grandfather

paradox.”

“What

is?

And

what

the

hell

is

the

grandfather

paradox?”

He

said

it

like

he

assumed

I

knew

what

the

grandfather

paradox

was,

because,

if

I

didn’t

know,

then

I

was

a

moron.

I

hate

when

people

do

that.

“They—I

mean

we—can’t

go

back

in

time

and

change

anything.

If

you

went

back

in

timeand

killed

your

grandfather

before

you

were

born,

then

you

wouldn’t

be

able

to

go

back

in

time

to

kill

your

grandfather.”

“Why

would

you

want

to

kill

your

grandfather?”

I

twisted

the

straw

in

my

strawberryFrappuccino

to

produce

that

unique

straw-in-a-lid

squeak.

“The

point

is

that

just

showing

up

changes

history,”

he

said.

Like

I

was

the

one

who

brought

up

time

travel.

“Do

we

have

to

talk

about

this?”

“What

else

is

there

to

talk

about?”

His

eyebrows

climbed

toward

his

hairline.

Mitchellhad

very

bushy

eyebrows.

It

was

one

of

the

first

things

I

noticed

about

him.

He

alsochewed

his

fingernails.

That

was

the

second

thing

I

noticed.

Cuticle

care

can

tell

you

a

lot

about

a

person.

I

pulled

out

my

phone

and

texted

Lizbeth:

help

me

“Are

you

scared?”

he

asked.

Trying

to

get

my

attention.

Or

for

some

reassurance.

Hewas

looking

at

me

very

intently.

I

shook

my

head.

“Just

bored.”

A

lie.

Of

course

I

was

scared.

I

knew

I

was

being

mean,but

I

couldn’t

help

it.

For

some

reason

I

can’t

explain,

I

was

mad

at

him.

Maybe

Iwas

really

mad

at

myself

for

saying

yes

to

a

date

with

a

guy

I

wasn’t

actually

interested

in.

Or

maybe

I

was

mad

at

him

for

not

being

Ben

Parish,

which

wasn’t

his

fault.

But

still.

help

u

do

wat?

“I

don’t

care

what

we

talk

about,”

he

said.

He

was

looking

toward

the

rose

bed,

swirlingthe

dregs

of

his

coffee,

his

knee

popping

up

and

down

so

violently

under

the

table

that

my

cup

jiggled.

mitchell.

I

didn’t

think

I

needed

to

say

any

more.

“Who

are

you

texting?”

told

u

not

to

go

out

w

him

“Nobody

you

know,”

I

said.

dont

know

why

i

did

“We

can

go

somewhere

else,”

he

said.

“You

want

to

go

to

a

movie?”

“There’s

a

curfew,”

I

reminded

him.

No

one

was

allowed

on

the

streets

after

nine

except

military

and

emergency

vehicles.

lol

to

make

ben

jealous

“Are

you

pissed

or

something?”

“No,”

I

said.

“I

told

you

what

I

was.”

He

pursed

his

lips

in

frustration.

He

didn’t

know

what

to

say.

“I

was

just

trying

to

figure

out

who

they

might

be,”

he

said.

“You

and

everybody

else

on

the

planet,”

I

said.

“Nobody

actually

knows,

and

they

won’t

tell

us,

so

everybody

sits

around

guessing

and

theorizing,

and

it’s

all

kind

of

pointless.

Maybe

they’re

spacefaring

micemen

from

Planet

Cheese

and

they’ve

come

for

our

provolone.”

bp

doesnt

know

i

exist

“You

know,”

he

said,

“it’s

kind

of

rude,

texting

while

I’m

trying

to

have

a

conversation

with

you.”

He

was

right.

I

slipped

the

phone

into

my

pocket.

What’s

happening

to

me?

I

wondered.

The

old

Cassie

never

would

have

done

that.

Already

the

Others

were

changingme

into

someone

different,

but

I

wanted

to

pretend

nothing

had

changed,

especially

me.

“Did

you

hear?”

he

asked,

going

right

back

to

the

topic

that

I

said

bored

me.

“They’rebuilding

a

landing

site.”

I

had

heard.

In

Death

Valley.

That’s

right:

Death

Valley.

“Personally,

I

don’t

think

it’s

a

very

smart

idea,”

he

said.

“Rolling

out

the

welcome

mat.”

“Why

not?”

“It’s

been

three

days.

Three

days

and

they’ve

refused

all

contact.

If

they’re

friendly,

why

wouldn’t

they

say

hello

already?”

“Maybe

they’re

just

shy.”

Twisting

my

hair

around

my

finger,

tugging

on

it

gently

to

produce

that

semipleasant

pain.

“Like

being

the

new

kid,”

he

said,

the

new

kid.

That

can’t

be

easy,

being

the

new

kid.

I

felt

like

I

should

apologize

for

being

rude.

“I

was

kind

of

mean

before,”

I

admitted.

“I’m

sorry.”

He

gave

me

a

confused

look.

He

was

talking

about

the

aliens,

not

himself,

and

then

I

said

something

about

me,

which

was

about

neither.

“It’s

okay,”

he

said.

“I

heard

you

don’t

date

much.”

Ouch.

“What

else

did

you

hear?”

One

of

those

questions

you

don’t

want

to

know

the

answer

to,

but

still

have

to

ask.

He

sipped

his

latte

through

the

little

hole

in

the

plastic

lid.

“Not

much.

It’s

not

like

I

asked

around.”

“You

asked

somebody

and

they

told

you

I

didn’t

date

much.”

“I

just

said

I

was

thinking

about

asking

you

out

and

they

go,

Cassie’s

pretty

cool.

And

I

said,

what’s

she

like?

And

they

said

you

were

nice

but

don’t

get

my

hopes

up

because

you

had

this

thing

for

Ben

Parish—”

“They

told

you

that?

Who

told

you

that?”

He

shrugged.

“I

don’t

remember

her

name.”

“Was

it

Lizbeth

Morgan?”

I’ll

kill

her.

“I

don’t

know

her

name,”

he

said.

“What

did

she

look

like?”

“Long

brown

hair.

Glasses.

I

think

her

name

is

Carly

or

something.”

“I

don’t

know

any…”

Oh

God.

Some

Carly

person

I

don’t

even

know

knows

about

me

and

Ben

Parish—or

the

lackof

any

me

and

Ben

Parish.

And

if

Carly-or-something

knew

about

it,

then

everybody

knew

about

it.

“Well,

they’re

wrong,”

I

sputtered.

“I

don’t

have

a

thing

for

Ben

Parish.”

“It

doesn’t

matter

to

me.”

“It

matters

to

me.”

“Maybe

this

isn’t

working

out,”

he

said.

“Everything

I

say,

you

either

get

bored

or

mad.”

“I’m

not

mad,”

I

said

angrily.

“Okay,

I’m

wrong.”

No,

he

was

right.

And

I

was

wrong

for

not

telling

him

the

Cassie

he

knew

wasn’t

theCassie

I

used

to

be,

the

pre-Arrival

Cassie

who

wouldn’t

have

been

mean

to

a

mosquito.

I

wasn’t

ready

to

admit

the

truth:

It

wasn’t

just

the

world

that

had

changed

with

the

coming

of

the

Others.

We

changed.

I

changed.

The

moment

the

mothership

appeared,

I

started

down

a

path

that

would

end

in

the

back

of

a

convenience

store

behind

some

empty

beer

coolers.

That

night

with

Mitchell

was

only

the

beginning

of

my

evolution.

Mitchell

was

right

about

the

Others

not

stopping

by

just

to

say

howdy.

On

the

eve

of

the

1st

Wave,

the

world’s

leading

theoretical

physicist,

one

of

the

smartest

guys

in

the

world

(that’s

what

popped

up

on

the

screen

under

his

talking

head:

ONE

OF

THE

SMARTEST

GUYS

IN

THE

WOR)L,

Dappeared

on

CNN

and

said,

“I’m

not

encouraged

by

the

silence.

I

can

think

of

no

benign

reason

for

it.

I’m

afraid

we

may

expect

something

closer

to

Christopher

Columbus’s

arrival

in

the

Americas

than

a

scene

from

Close

Encounters,

and

we

all

know

how

that

turned

out

for

the

Native

Americans.”

I

turned

to

my

father

and

said,

“We

should

nuke

’em.”

I

had

to

raise

my

voice

to

be

heard

over

the

TV—Dad

always

jacked

up

the

volume

during

the

news

so

he

could

hearit

over

Mom’s

TV

in

the

kitchen.

She

liked

to

watch

TLC

while

she

cooked.

I

called

it

the

War

of

the

Remotes.

“Cassie!”

He

was

so

shocked,

his

toes

began

to

curl

inside

his

white

athletic

socks.

He

grew

up

on

Close

Encounters

and

E.T.

and

Star

Trek

and

totally

bought

into

the

idea

that

the

Others

had

come

to

liberate

us

from

ourselves.

No

more

hunger.

No

more

wars.

The

eradication

of

disease.

The

secrets

of

the

cosmos

unveiled.

“Don’t

you

understand

this

could

be

the

next

step

in

our

evolution?

A

huge

leap

forward.

Huge.”

He

gave

me

a

consoling

hug.

“We’re

all

very

fortunate

to

be

here

to

see

it.”

Then

he

added

casually,

like

he

was

talking